Back to a Reason
by lightfaith0606
Summary: "We were most reluctant to have you or your brother visit in case the resemblance to your father was… uncanny. It was not only for her sake, but also for the sake that no little boy should ever have to see his mother in such a condition as yours." The first and last time Murdoc Niccals ever visited his mother in the sanatorium during Christmas.


**A/N:** I've been a fan of Gorillaz since 2015 and have written drafts and fanfics since. A couple I've shared with a friends, but this is my first time publicly sharing a Gorillaz fanfic or any fanfiction since 2014. Murdoc's been one of my favorites to write about, being his values and personality is radically different than my own. His background is always a personal delight to discover, so given the mysteriousness of his mom, I decided to write a headcanon about her and an additional reason why he hates Christmas.

Based off of Trans-Siberian Orchestra's song "Back to a Reason (Part II)" from their album _The Lost Christmas Eve_.

I do have more fanfiction for Gorillaz I want to share more of next year, so all and any criticism is welcomed to know what direction to take my writing. I hope you enjoy~

Please read and review!

 _ ***TRIGGER WARNING!**_ Contains mentions of depression, anxiety, bipolarism and rape. Viewer discretion is advised.

DISCLAIMER! I do not own Gorillaz(c)! Jamie Hewlett and Damon Albarn do!

* * *

 **Back to a Reason**

 _A Murdoc Niccals One Shot_

Stoke-on-Trent received a latecomer on the evening of Christmas Eve. A 1984 Chieftain Winnebago Motorhome roared and creaked through the town, incising the sea of snow with its chained tires. The lemon yellow headlights almost served as a silver lining as they pierced the dim streets of the bleak neighborhood. The bass to Black Sabbath's "Paranoid" thundered through the Winnebago's speakers, announcing the visitor's arrival. Finally the vehicle halted and hummed as it powered down right by a dilapidated liquor store.

Not too long after, the Winnebago's door swung open, unveiling Murdoc Niccals, self-proclaimed band leader and bassist of Gorillaz. The frigid air nipped at his exposed cheeks, ears, and nose as the breeze played with his mopped, raven-black hair and wine red scarf. He locked the door behind him, propping up the collar of his ebony jacket he wore over his gray turtleneck sweater.

Snow crunched underneath his Cuban heels, his steps heavy and wavering. His mismatched eyes peered through the wisps of snowflakes sprinkling onto the earth. His dry, calloused hands dug deep into the pockets of his jeans, only to soon be brought back out with a lighter and pack of cigarettes. One stick he pulled out, settling over his chapped lips. Within a couple flicks, he ignited a flame, taking caution to not let the air consume it before having the cigarette tip spark. The items were then pocketed, Murdoc exhaling a steady, deep drag he took through his mouth and nose, watching the smoke dance with the wind into the somber atmosphere.

Winter was his favorite season, not many people knew of it. Even though a majority of his childhood consisted of shivering, sleepless nights from poor ventilation in his shack of a home, he was rather fond of staring outside windows and stoops to watch snowfalls. Murdoc liked smoking best in winter to dawn's arrival, when her golden beams would cause the fallen snowflakes to blink at her. Twilight was just as a marvelous time to witness this natural phenomenon, especially on a street like this one; barren, dim and melancholy.

The only thing that ruined this landscape were the Christmas decorations glaring at him. Red and green ribbons were wrapped around lamp posts that were overdue for a new coat of paint. To Murdoc's left were the small businesses lined up like soldiers in a neat row, their windows plastered with peeling stickers of candy canes, sleights, presents, reindeer… Looking towards his right where the suburban homes resided was a stronger eyesore; lit Christmas trees sparkling through dusty and cracked windows, strings of lights tacked over the missing shingles of roofs, crudely shaped snowmen cemented on lawns... Most notable of the homes however was one whose family had the gall to place a sculpted Nativity set on their porch, completed with a flashing star over the manor and the angel's wings opening and closing above the baby Jesus's head.

Murdoc sneered at the scene, clicking his abnormally long tongue in the process, his steps now steadfast.

 _Disgusting…_

Stoke-On-Trent was nothing more than a "dump." Anyone who tried to amend it was like adding sprinkles onto a pile of horse dung; it didn't improve anything, just made the matter at hand more pathetic.

Normally Murdoc would spend Christmas Eves at bars, finding single and legal women to steal kisses under mistletoes, more often than not leading to invite one- sometimes several- women into his vehicle later. But this year he wasn't drinking merrily or even preparing his Winnebago for women to nestle into.

No, Murdoc Niccals was back in his dreaded hometown, the very place that made his childhood miserable, the city he swore to Satan he'd never visit again, all because of that letter… That damn letter his band mate Russel had to find in the post before handing it to Murdoc, questioning the sender that was Belphegor Sanatorium. Curiosity got the best of him, and opening the letter proved to be an instant act of regret.

The sanatorium had asked him to visit his estranged mother for the holidays. Two of the letter's lines continued to flash in his mind as he trudge along.

 _"You're the only one suitable to see her. We believe this could highly benefit her health."_

Of course he'd be the only one not in jail like his brother. Of course he'd be the only one without a questionable history of name changes like his father. But it angered him. Why was it only now that the sanatorium asked him to visit? Why didn't the employees ask for his presence within the eighteen years he spent growing up in the Stoke-On-Trent? Why only now was he asked when he was in his thirties and at the epitome of his newfound fame from starting Gorillaz? 'Cause he had money? Because they solidified the matter before Gorillaz, people wouldn't bat an eye for him?

The scenario had angered Murdoc so much at the time, he was this close to sending the read letter into the band's own pit of Hell of the studio, but Russel was the one who prevented it, insisting the bassist to visit.

 _"Maybe she misses you."_

 _"Bullshit"_ was Murdoc's immediate response. A quarrel erupted between the two until finally Murdoc agreed to visit, but only to prove they only wanted him for his money. Russel was sworn to secrecy and days later the bassist was walking among the streets of this depressing town. He took another needed drag, feeling his nerves simmer down upon exhaling.

Once at the end of the street, Murdoc was staring back at the black iron gates of Belphegor, as indicated by the rusty letters erected above the barrier. On the otherside was a burly man wrapped in an oversized navy jacket. His head was concealed by a thick, plaid scarf, earmuffs, and a knitted cap. He shone his flashlight over Murdoc's eyes, wincing upon discovering one was poppy red.

"State yer name an' business." He said hastily, as though to shield his fear.

Murdoc squinted through the light, his hand digging into his jacket to pull out the crumpled letter.

"Invitation for Murdoc Niccals."

The security guard then lowered the light to glance at a clipboard in his hand, beady eyes skimming through a list before nodding his head.

"Yeh, orright, c'mon then."

He pressed a button on the brick wall that surrounded the premises. With an eerie moan, the gates drifted apart, exposing the late 19th century building that was the sanitorium. Murdoc passed through, hearing the gates creak as they closed behind him.

"No smokin' inside th' buildin', mate."

Murdoc waved it away, but had tossed the stub into the snow before climbing up the steps of the main entrance. He considered himself as someone who was fearless, fearless enough to confront Beelzebub himself to sell his soul to when he became a young adult. That instance, however, sounded more preferable to face rather than these dilapidated wooden doors where beyond resided the woman who conceived him.

Nonetheless, he pushed through and felt heat suffuse his body. Ah, more eyesores to welcome him; a withered wreath hung over doorways of the lobby, chipped ornaments were strung on plastic strings of garland and the couches were tarnished and moth-eaten. Yet a couple patients utilized them still, accompanied by comforting nurses. Murdoc couldn't help but study each individual, trying to figure out if one of them passed down any shared characteristics to him.

Centered in the lobby was an information desk. Seated on the other side was a woman in her fifties. Her mahogany red lips scrunched and twisted in concentration as her large, round glasses reflected off the monitor of her computer.

Murdoc leaned over the counter, clearing his throat.

"Visitor?" She asked, not looking up.

"Yeah."

She pulled out a clipboard and slid it across to him.

"Your signature and time you checked in, please."

He complied as Molly, as sewn on her uniform, punched into the number pads of a phone.

"Doctor, a..." She squinted at Murdoc's penmanship, then went wide eyed. "...The Murdoc Niccals is here."

Molly nodded her head and then hung up, running her hand through her graying short hair and giving a wrinkled smile at him.

"So… created a band, huh?"

He rolled his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. Nothing has changed in Stoke-on-Trent. Growing up, everyone acted like he was invisible and now he was the most interesting person in the world. Before he had a chance to give a witty comment, metal double doors popped open. An elderly man with a white coat and khaki pants locked eyes with Murdoc. Wisps of cotton white hair attached to either side of his head, messily combed in an attempt to blanket the bald center of the man. He studied the rock star and then grinned.

"Murdoc Niccals! Glad to see you made it!"

The bassist was taken aback how swiftly the doctor enclosed his hand with both of his own, giving a firm shake. His hands felt like icicles.

"My name is Doctor Acton. I've been working here for over forty years. I don't know where to begin expressing how thrilled I am you answered our request. Emilia will be very delighted to see you!"

Murdoc felt his chest ripple. Emilia? As in… Emilia Niccals? Was that her full name? Did she even keep her maiden name? His father had burned any photos and information regarding Mrs. Niccals even before Murdoc was born. Everytime Murdoc asked a question regarding her identity, he would be ignored, yelled at, or what was most often, receive a slap or punch to the face.

"Let's not waste anymore time! Right this way, Mr. Niccals-"

"Murdoc." He grumbled. "Mr. Niccals" was what everyone called his father.

"...Very well then. Right this way, Murdoc."

Doctor Acton passed through the metal double doors, Murdoc following close behind. Upon entrance, Murdoc's nose scrunched as it was invaded with chlorine and lemon-scented mopping liquid. He was never fond of hospitals or care units of the sort because it always smelled so clean… Clean to mask the putrid odors that would be blood, bile, feces, and even death.

"This is a fairly common time of the season where most of our patients fall into what is called 'Seasonal Affective Disorder.' As you know, in winter the days are shorter and the nights are longer. There is less sunlight, and that leads to patients becoming less energized and more fatigued. Provisions also become scarce, so some dietary essentials get depleted in diets. It's a slippery slope for our residents here as the disorder increases levels of depression, anxiety, and bipolar behavior."

Murdoc listened on, his Cuban boots clicking with Doctor Acton's black loafers as they turned another hall. His mind buzzed in wonder which of these was his mother a victim of… Could she be diagnosed with all of these? Or was she ill with something worse?

"The treatment is fairly simple; exposure to sunlight or light therapy, antidepressants, exercise… Rumors say more supplements of Vitamin D, however, we at the sanatorium have found no link to decreased Vitamin D levels and depression in older women. Therefore, we have resided to having Emilia meet someone more intimate than clients or staff here… Friends and family."

"So you waited until now to reach out?" Murdoc snorted.

Doctor Acton halted, Murdoc nearly colliding into him. His kind smile had dissipated into a crestfallen frown.

"Believe me, this was a route we had always wanted to take since her enrollment here, however, we did not proceed as Sebastian had her cut terms with her immediate friends and family during their relationship. We were most reluctant to have you or your brother visit in case the resemblance to your father was… uncanny. It was not only for her sake, but also for the sake that no little boy should ever have to see his mother in such a condition as yours."

The older man placed a hand over the doorknob of a wooden door labeled Room 232.

"If this goes well… We are hoping you will become a regular visitor to her."

He knocked and held the door for the younger man to pass through first. Murdoc took another breath, hand twitching for another smoke, but proceeded.

On the other side of the room stood two nurses, one male, one female. The male held onto the handles of a wheelchair while the female was crouched to the patient seated. The patient's hair was dark brown, almost black, trailing down to her lap in thin strands. The fluorescent lights that hung above reflected into the streaks of silver and gray in her hair. Her head was bowed, shielding wandering eyes from peering her face. She wore a faded black shawl over a white tunic stamped with periwinkle dots.

Murdoc felt Doctor Acton's presence beside him. The female nurse returned a nod and gently shook the patient's hand.

"Emilia… Emilia, sweetums, someone is here to see you! Aren't you excited?"

The nurse stepped back and Murdoc watched Emilia's head lift, her hair cascading back, alas unveiling her face. Indigo bags hung under her crusted eyes. Her placid skin was sullen, peeled at the nostrils of her straight nose, peppered with age spots. A cold sore rested on the lower lip of her petite mouth. Dark chocolate eyes widened as she gave a sharp, hollow gasp, her mouth widening enough to expose the yellowing few teeth she had left. She stood up suddenly, the nurses immediately making haste to settle her back down.

"Let her," Doctor Acton said softly. "Go on Murdoc, say hello."

The Satanist clenched his jaw but took a large step forward. Emilia didn't pick up her feet from off the floor, letting her dark violet slippers drag her across. Her knees wobbled and her arms outstretched a bit to her sides to maintain balance. Her clothes were one size too large for her and translucent; Murdoc could decipher the belly she'd develop and her sagging breasts. She softly panted, lips twitching into an agape smile. But just as she was less than a meter away from him, she lost her footing and her body suddenly began toppling towards the floor.

"Emilia!" A couple of the nurses rushed over.

Murdoc didn't know what possessed him to do so, but he immediately embraced the woman before she could collide into the floor. He steadied her after bringing themselves upright, watching her shift in place. Her hands tightly grasped onto the fabric of his jacket, and eventually she looked up at him. It wasn't until now did he realize what a petite woman she was, the top of her head just reaching the middle of his chest. Through his hold, he felt her thin and bony frame, afraid if he held her any tighter she'd break into a million pieces. She smelled of pine cleaning detergent… but also of fresh linen and lilacs. Her breath reeked of marmalade as she breathed in his face.

There was an undeclared staring contest between mother and son until she lifted her calloused, trembling hands towards him. As uneasy as it made him, Murdoc Niccals was not one to back off from a challenge, as this woman was about to witness. He straightened his back and even puffed his chest out for good measure. He held back shivers once her cool but smooth hands impacted his cheeks. He permitted her hold his face and tilt it here and there, her eyes tracing every pore, crevice and bump he adorned.

"You look nothing like your father…" Her voice brittle and breathy. "That makes me happy."

Emilia sniffed, Murdoc watching her eyes accumulate tears until finally she buried herself into his scarf and sobbed. His face remained stern as he felt steam release from his ears. So many years he'd ponder and plan the speech he'd tell her for if they ever encountered. He always imagined he'd give her the cold shoulder or a speech of everything she failed to do as a mother.

She didn't ask for him to come to Belphegor Sanatorium, the staff did. She could have cared less if he passed away at birth. She didn't care for him… couldn't have cared for him. How could she when she missed over thirty years of getting to know him, his likes and dislikes, his interests? Where was she during the times his father would mercilessly abuse him physically and psychologically? Where was she when the lunch lady at his school took his virginity? Where was she when Tony Chopper would stalk him to bully him? Where was she when Hannibal broke his nose and had his friends gangbang him? Where was she when Kelly O'Driscoll broke his nose, pelvis, and heart?

No one took care of him. He did. He was the one who had to nurse and comfort himself. So why was he the one comforting her? She was a terrible mother, an ugly mother… But she was his mother… And the big difference between her and Sebastian was she hugged him, she held him, she caressed his face… She cried for him… she was happy for him…

 _Fuck…_

Murdoc shut his eyes and embraced Emilia closer, pressing his face into her graying hair. He felt a stronger understanding as to why Noodle, Gorillaz's ten year old guitarist was obsessed with being held by her boys. She must have felt as safe as he was feeling now; secured, assured, wanted… Dare he even say it, even _loved_.

He imagined this woman holding him as she was doing now; convincing him his father was wrong and all his belittling was false, reassuring him he did nothing wrong to deserve the lunch lady violating his body, promising she'd confront Tony Chopper's parents regarding his stalking, sealing his wounds when Hannibal or Sebastian would implant them, insisting that Kelly was a bitch and there'd be someone else, someone better for him.

Emilia felt so cold… but the heater was on. Were her clothes that thin? Or did her body lack that much body heat? Murdoc reluctantly pulled away from her arms, untied his scarf, and gingerly wrapped it around her neck. She sighed at the warmth and even snuggled her cheek deeper into the material. He in turn felt his lips curl upwards. She held onto him again, burying her head underneath his chin. Murdoc shushed her sniffles, tracing small circles over her spine-protruding back.

And then he hissed.

Before he knew it, that tranquil embrace Murdoc felt mutated into a piercing grab. The hold felt too similar to when Hannibal would grip him into a headlock. Her sobbing melted into a laughter.

"Mine…" She cackled. "You're mine… You're never leaving me again, you naughty boy."

Her long, unkempt nails dug through his layers. One hand even flew into his hair to yank him down to her level.

"Mummy will have to punish you in order to teach you a lesson."

"Doctor...!?" exclaimed one of the female nurses.

"Oh no…"

Emilia was only able to knock her son to the ground because he was caught off guard by her actions. She pinned him down, Murdoc grimacing at her wide eyed stare as she grinned crookedly at him.

"You're trying to hurt me like Sebastian… you're just like him. I won't let you hurt me. I can fight back!"

He gasped when she enclosed her hands over his neck and squeezed. His body trembled as he attempted to push her off of him.

"Nurses, seize her!" came Doctor Acton's voice.

The nurses quickly held either side of Emilia and lifted her back into her wheelchair. Murdoc took advantage of the opportunity to crawl back, coughing as he soothed his neck.

"What are you doing!?" She whimpered. "Don't touch me!"

"Murdoc, come with me," Doctor Acton assisted him to his feet.

He shoved the doctor's hand off of him, his attention quickly diverting back to the woman.

"Let me go! Where is he!? Murdoc…!? MURDOC!"

She lunged for him but the nurses held her back, wrapping a leather strap around the chair to bind her.

"MY BABY!"

"Murdoc, let's go now." Doctor Acton pulled his arm.

Yet he remained standing where he was, his heart pounding against his chest, his throat throbbing by a new lump formed in it.

"Mum…" He only muttered, his voice shaking and meek.

"DON'T TAKE MY BABY AWAY! I NEED HIM!"

She violently flung herself in the wheelchair, the female nurse preparing a syringe.

"MURDOC!"

He weakly called to her, part of him wanting to find the woman that hugged him… but another part of him urged him to retreat for the sake of his well being.

"MURDOC PLEASE COME BACK TO ME!"

"Mr. Niccals, it's time to leave!" The doctor turned him around and hurried him out the door.

"MUMMY LOVES YOU, BABY! MUMMY LOVES-!"

Doctor Acton slammed the door shut, taking out a handkerchief to smooth his face. On the other side were the faint screams and bawls of Emilia.

"I beg your pardon, Murdoc, I was certain this wouldn't happen anymore after she greeted a family member. Please, take a moment to step into my office. We can discuss a schedule to steady her treatment. I'm certain with patience and time, we can- Murdoc? Murdoc Niccals, where are you going!?"

But Murdoc had already stomped out of the halls, through the lobby, and out the main entrance of the sanatorium. He slammed both fists into the doors and growled, his breathing ragged. He hadn't realized he let tears spill until the freezing air made his eyes and cheeks sting. His head felt heavy to the point he had to lean it against the doors to support himself. Silence accompanied him, followed by the low howls of the wind. Then came the tolling of the bell from the local church. The low, pitched ring echoed through Stoke-on-Trent, serving as a soothsayer to Murdoc's ears. Towards the sixth bell, he stood upright, wiping her sleeve across his face, and then glared at the double wooden doors.

"Happy Christmas, Murdoc Niccals…" He spat onto the steps and then stormed back towards his Winnebago.


End file.
